


Assistance

by The_Secret_Life_Of_Tea



Series: Good Omens [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Alternative and Augmentative Communication, Assistive Devices, Autism, Autism Spectrum, Autistic Character, Canes, Chronic Pain, Crowley Has Chronic Pain (Good Omens), Disability, Disabled Character, Other, aac, internalized ableism, neurodivergence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-27 11:22:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20045176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Secret_Life_Of_Tea/pseuds/The_Secret_Life_Of_Tea
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley, as themselves.





	1. Soft

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fabalafae22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabalafae22/gifts), [natalunasans](https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalunasans/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Interdependence](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19970737) by [fabalafae22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabalafae22/pseuds/fabalafae22). 

> First Good Omens fic! Very proud to present it.

Aziraphale leaned over to stroke Crowley’s cheek, fingertips feather-light and trembling only the slightest bit. 

The morning after. Sunlight dripping across his demon’s face. The littlest details capture Aziraphale’s mind, send it spinning, have him grinning. 

He loves to wake up next to his lover. It’s a special sort of feeling, being able to spoon this silly demon who is all bark and no bite; to be able to call him his, not in the possessive sense but in the whole of things, to say they are intertwined so inextricably makes his wings flutter in pure joy. 

An angel does well when they have something to love. If they have something to pour their passions into, be it a hobby or a person, they’ll thrive. For years, Zira has filled that void with books and fine wine and good food, but he didn’t realize that for all his decadence, he was missing something. 

That something being a demon does not deter him. It is no longer about trying to turn Crowley to the side of light, because he has given that up ages ago—no, now it is appreciating Crowley’s sardonic wit, reveling in the way their fingers lock together in the evenings. 

Crowley does not need to be fixed. This is something that has taken Aziraphale ages to understand, but now that he does, things between them are much better.

Take the pain, for example...


	2. Conversations

A cane appeared in Crowley’s hand one day as the two took their bi-monthly stroll to the duck pond. Aziraphale did not notice it, mostly because he was too busy narrating their walk and the sights that both of them could see. He liked to do this in order to help his brain process what was around him; Crowley used to tease him for it, but when Aziraphale admitted that it helped, he’d softened and let him do his thing with no objection or comment. 

“And look, here we have the ducks themselves, the lovely little quackers,” Aziraphale beamed, hands fluttering by his sides in visible joy. Crowley snorted. 

“‘Lovely little quackers?’ You’re going soft, Zira,” he told the being, but the inescapable fondness of his tone betrayed him. 

Aziraphale looked up, then, at the scent of a miracle—it smelled of burning wood, oaky and musty and just a bit fear-inspiring. “Mm?”

In Crowley’s hand a cane stood. Carved into the shape of a serpent, all bronze-brushed and winding wood, it caught the onlooker’s appreciative eye. Aziraphale tilted his head. 

“What’s that, then?” he asked, and Crowley flushed red, snapping his fingers. In its place appeared a simple black folding cane with a handle and strap. 

“It’s a cane,” Crowley croaked, shoving back the guilty feelings. Sure, he could walk a ways without one, but he felt that after preventing the Apocalypse, he deserved to have a stroll with his partner with alleviated pain (not pain-free. That was simply out of the question). 

Aziraphale seemed to process this, chewing on his lip as he thought. He knew, theoretically speaking, that Crowley was in pain all the time. It didn’t happen to all Fallen angels—in fact, Aziraphale had never heard it mentioned by the others, and they didn’t walk like Crowley, didn’t move like him—but Crowley had told him after the aborted Apocalypse. 

He thought that to that conversation now, quiet:

_”Crowley, dear, why... why do you walk like that? With that odd gait of yours, you almost look like you’re injured, for heaven’s sake!” The angel tried to keep his voice light, but it proved difficult; his voice cracked at the end just a bit. It was enough to turn Crowley’s head, though, and Aziraphale found himself face-to-face with those impenetrable shades. _

_ “Well. Erm. Funny you should say that, Zira, because I am injured,” Crowley managed to choke out. “Though I suppose the term ‘injury’ makes it sound like there’s a cure or a way to heal...”_

_ Aziraphale had stood with his mouth gaping like a fish until Crowley explained, “Chronic pain. It’s uh. You know. Chronic. Been stuck with it for six thousand years, don’t see it lettin’ up now. Sorta hoped that with the Apocalypse and all it might, but. It didn’t, so.” He gave an uncomfortable shrug. _

_ Aziraphale, usually so bad at masking his emotions, looked utterly blank in the eyes at Crowley’s confession. “—So you’ve been hurting all this time and you’ve not said a word to me about it?” He asked, voice soft, and Crowley gave a tiny nod. The demon felt about two feet tall._

_ “Oh, Crowley... you never told me... why?”_

_ Crowley huffed. “Because Someone Up There knows how you talk about disabled people... all ‘poor lamb’ this and ‘now thou art healed’ that. It’s infuriating, angel! We’re not something to be pitied.”_

_Aziraphale, chewing his lip ferociously, did not know which was worse—the fact that Crowley had felt the need to hide this from him, or that Crowley had used the term ‘we.’_

_ He fluttered his hands at him in a little nervous gesture. “No need to talk about it anymore, my dear boy! Everything will be as it’s always been.”_

_ Caught up in his own anxieties, the angel did not notice the way Crowley’s shoulders dropped. “Sure,” Crowley replied weakly, and they picked up their walk where they had left off in choking silence._

A firm set came to Aziraphale’s jaw that had Crowley biting his lip. He didn’t like That Look—it’d come over his angel during the Stonewall Riots before he threw a brick at a patrol cop’s face. “Uh… what’s on your mind, then, angel?”

“Don’t try to blend in simply on my account, Crowley,” Aziraphale told him. “It’s not right. If that cane makes things easier, then by all means, use it! And I liked the other cane a bit better… more suited to your, erm, what did Adam call it… ‘aesthetic’.” He gave Crowley a brave little smile. “The choice is yours, of course, but that craftsmanship is gorgeous.”

Flabbergasted and stammering, Crowley nodded a few times. “Yeah, um, sure.” And in his hand came that lovely cane again, the handle firm in the demon’s grip. He found himself supported on his other side and looked to Aziraphale, who’d stepped closer to link their arms together. 

“Right, we’re off again,” Zira nodded determinedly, and Crowley could not suppress a smile as they took their time through the park.


End file.
